After All These Years
by Leonhard van Euler
Summary: After the wizarding war, Harry was left broken. Mycroft Holmes finds him in the gutter and recognised him for his genius. In exchange for his services as a consulting detective, Harry receives a new identity as Sherlock Holmes. Years later, Sherlock Holmes finds himself, Scotland Yard and the aurors investigating the murder of a witch... Will he be recognised? Harry!genius HG/RW
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm back again, with a new story. This is just a little prologue... I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it. I just don't have the time. I wrote this in one morning... I needed to write something... Anyway, wish me luck for my exams! ._.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **IMPORTANT: This takes place directly after THE EMPTY HEARSE.**

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Guy Fawkes indeed. Sherlock scoffed and shook his head; thank God they had caught Moran in time, that is, before he had managed to blow up parliament. _That_ would have been a terrible mess. And Mycroft would have been pissed. Then again, Mycroft was probably already pissed. He had been pissed at Sherlock ever since he had rescued him from the gutter.

Sighing, Sherlock refocused his gaze on the street outside. Gently he moved the curtains to the side to peek out. A whole flock of reporters was standing outside, waiting for him. One man was leaning against the house on the other side of the street; he was reading a newspaper.

From his position by the window, Sherlock could only just see the masthead of the newspaper he was reading. It read: "#SherlockLives".

Sherlock rolled his eyes; it seemed history was doomed to repeat itself. Once, years ago, on the 31st of October 1981, he, a year and a half old baby, had been attacked by the Dark Lord Voldemort. The killing curse had rebounded, and instead had killed Voldemort's body, releasing the little piece of soul that had managed to survive all those years. On that fateful night, Sherlock, at that time still Harry Potter, had been hailed the 'Boy-Who-Lived, defeater of Voldemort.'

He'd been called so many names, at some point Harry Potter, then The-Boy-Who-Lived, then the Chosen One and finally The Saviour. That had been the end of him as Harry Potter.

Subconsciously, Sherlock's hand crept up to his forehead, feeling the faint outline of his thin scar. It was hidden, of course, by a strong glamour and no one from this life (with the exception of Mycroft) knew that it was there.

"Yoo-hoo!" Sherlock blinked at the sudden intrusion and he turned away from the window just as a few reporters started noticing that someone was peeking at the outside world. Mrs Hudson. How had he failed to notice her? Usually he noticed these things - Mycroft had drilled it into him to always stay alert. Usually Sherlock knew who was about to come up the stairs before they even took their first step.

Mrs Hudson was setting a tray on the coffee table; it was filled with all of her celebratory biscuits, a tea-pot and two tea cups. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the display of food. That many biscuits would have taken a lot of time and effort to make, evidently she _was_ happy for John and Mary. One would think after all these years of playing matchmaker for John and Sherlock that she would be disappointed.

Mary was in the next room, talking to lestrade, who had come to celebrate John and Mary's engagement. Molly had also promised to come, albeit with her new boyfriend, who Sherlock was admittedly not very interested in meeting. Mrs Hudson shot him one last Mrs Weasley-like smile, grabbed a glass of champagne and her tray and left the kitchen.

Before Sherlock could compose his thoughts and follow him, his phone rang.

"Mycroft," Sherlock intoned upon seeing the id of the caller.

"Sherlock, please, I beg of you, you can take over at the interval!" Mycroft exclaimed. In the background, Sherlock could hear the song 'Do you hear the people sing' from the musical Les Miserables. Evidently, Mycroft had promised his mother and father that he'd watch Les Mis with them and had now dug his own grave.

Sherlock smirked and donned his suit jacket, "Oh, I'm sorry, _brother dear_ , but you made a promise. There's nothing I can do to help."

Ever since that day, right after the war, that Harry had o'd and Mycroft found him in the gutter he had been forced to call Mycroft 'brother'. While they _were_ third cousins of some sort, they weren't blood brothers (although Sherlock sometimes had the feeling that they fought so much that they could very well be brothers). The war had been hard on Sherlock - he had lost many friends and the last shreds of his innocence.

Mycroft had recognised his cold intelligence, and had taken him in. Mycroft's mother had been more than happy to take care of him for the next few months while Sherlock went through withdrawal. Then, his _brother_ had sent him to a proper University to actually learn something. During that whole time, Sherlock Mycroft had taught about the world; about people, their manners, psychology and idiocy. And then, Mycroft had released him back into society as a smooth, intelligent consulting detective. Sherlock owed him much, and sometimes he even feared that he cared for the man as one might care for a friend or a brother. But he wasn't about to endure the torture of watching a _musical_ with Mycroft's parents.

"But you don't understand the pain of it - the _horror_!" Sherlock smirked, partly because he understood, and partly because he was enjoying Mycroft's misfortune.

He hung up, just in time to see John appear in the doorway.

"Come on, you have to go down. They want the story." He was referring to the reporters all impatiently standing at their front door.

"In a minute."

On the way to the living room, Sherlock grabbed a bottle of champagne from the fridge and kneeled down at the coffee table to pour every one a glass of the bubbling liquid.

Conversation was lively; there was much talk about weddings and relationships. Even Lestrade, who's wife had divorced him was in a lively mood.

"This is Tom!" Came the warm voice of Molly Hooper and Sherlock spun around in shock; so far he had been surprised two times already. _What was going on today?_

Everyoneexchanged a few awkward hellos and Sherlock refrained himself from verbally attacking the man. What was Molly playing at? He looked remarkably similar to him!

Inwardly rolling his eyes (and trying very hard not to let his disbelief and disapproval show), Sherlock shook the man's hand and swept past him. John followed him into the vestibule, where Sherlock donned his trench coat and scarf.

"Ready?" He asked John who chuckled.

"Ready," John sighed as though he was stalling, then gathering his wits he said: "I'm still waiting."

"Hmm?"

"Why did they try and kill me? If they knew you were on to them, why go after _me -_ put _me_ into the bonfire?"

"I don't know, and I don't like not knowing." Sherlock pursed his lips and continued, "Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John real life is rarely so neat," he paused as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "I don't know who was behind all this, but I _will_ find out, I promise you."

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying this?"

"Hmm?"

"Being back, being a hero again..." John trailed off at Sherlock's serious expression. No, he didn't enjoy it. Not one bit. Just as he hadn't enjoyed being Harry Potter. But at least, at least as Sherlock Holmes, he was famous for his own accomplishments.

"Oh, don't be stupid," Sherlock murmured

"You'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You _love_ it." Sherlock did in fact hate the fame; was his acting that good?

"Love what?"

"Being Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean." He did in fact know exactly what it meant. And yes, if that was what John meant, then yes, he did love being Sherlock Holmes. He had the freedom now that he'd never had.

"Sherlock are you gonna tell me how you did it?" John folded his arms behind his back, "How you jumped off that building and survived?"

Apparation.

"You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible," Sherlock jested.

"No but seriously, Sherlock. When you were dead, I went to your grave-"

Sherlock smirked, "I should hope so."

"-I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you." John continued as though he had never noticed the interruption.

Sherlock, who had turned to the door, turned around to face his friend. "I know. I was there." John's eyes widened at that admission.

"I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."

"I heard you," Sherlock replied softly. John's eyes were suddenly filled with emotion but as the typical Englishman, he refused to express it. His stance straightened as Sherlock reached for the doorknob. "Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes."

...

Elsewhere, a few hours away from London, on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon England, an area which was vastly dominated by the magical folk, was the Weasley house. It was not as it had been twenty years ago: Ron Weasley's job as an Auror was good and his wages large; Weasley Wizard Wheezes was prospering; and the rest of the brothers (and sisters) had managed to find good jobs and were earning well. As a fifty year anniversary gift for their parents, they had rebuilt the Weasley house into something studier and larger.

The house, however, was still filled with magic. The garden was filled with garden gnomes (who had refused to resettle - even during construction of the new house), and meals in the large kitchen were still prepared with magic. It was actually in this very kitchen that the whole Weasley family was currently eating their meal with the usual exuberance.

At the head, sat Mr Weasley and on the other side Mrs Weasley. At the lengths of the table, sat Hermione, now married to Ron, George, Bill, Charlie and Ginny - who sat next to her fiancee Seamus Finnigan.

"So, Hermione, I hear the _Daily Prophet_ is making more profits than ever?" asked Charlie while reaching for the salt.

"Oh yes! Now that the ministry isn't controlling it anymore, we can finally print real news! Rita Skeeter also finally decided to retire last month, so everything is wonderful!"

Farther down along the table, Bill was involved in a serious talk with his father. Apparently, the ministry was starting to wobble again. It had been completely restructured after the war and all corruption had been nonexistent. Now, slowly, the power hungry politicians were starting to corrupt it again.

"Did you hear about that woman who got shot on Thor Bridge? Terrible business isn't it?" Seamus asked suddenly as Hermione started talking about the crime section in the _Daily Prophet._ The table quieted down slightly.

"Yeah, Jones - the Auror department head - wants to investigate it. Apparently the woman was wife to a senator from the United States magical government. As she was married to a wizard, they're forcing us to investigate," Ron muttered.

"There's a press conference on that matter on Friday - in Scotland Yard. I have a scheduled interview with a Detective Inspector," Hermione said with a sigh, "It's all very tragic of course." The was a sudden lull in conversation as all this talk of death reminded them of days when they would fear walking out the front door.

This lull in conversation allowed Hermione to look away from her conversation partners and instead let her gaze sweep the room. Finally her eyes fell on a picture frame hanging on the prime spot in the kitchen. It was of the Weasleys, herself and Harry. They were smiling and waving at the camera, eyes wide and innocent. It had been taken before her sixth year; in a time when they were still innocent and naive about the tragic war yet to come.

Her eyes wandered towards Harry's smiling face and she sighed. They had looked for him during the first ten years; after that, the minister had declared him dead. But somehow, deep in her heart, she knew her best friend wasn't dead. And after all these years; after two children, and many birthdays, she still longed to see her friend.

Little did she know that very, very soon, she would meet her best friend again.

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 **To be continued or not to be continued?**


	2. Chapter 2

**I had a sudden urge to continue writing this story - so much has happened since I wrote the premise two and a half years ago. I graduated from school, began university (architecture arrgggghh - first year of six DONE) - you know, fun stuff. Just finished my exams, hence the sudden inspiration to write! God, reading the first chapter of this surprised me at how terrible my English was. I haven't seen Sherlock in a few years (or at least, since the newest series came out - was that 2018?) so the characters might be a little off... apologies.**

 **Many many thanks to those who reviewed, followed and favourited this story - I was just rereading the reviews last night, and wow, you guys are all so incredible, as are your comments. Thank you so much!**

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Sherlock stomped up to the government building, collar up, scarf as usual tied around his neck. John trailed after him, a little behind after having paid the taxi driver. There was a small smile plastered on his lips.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked, pushing though the doors. John looked up.

"What is what?"

"That, on your face?"

"We've been over this Sherlock, the moustache is gone. Apparently no one liked it."

Indeed, John was clean-shaven this morning.

"No the smile. Why are you smiling?"

"People smile, Sherlock. It's a thing people do when they're happy."

He raised an eyebrow at John, whose smile only widened.

"They're actually happy to see you-" A hand slapped on Sherlock's shoulder. At his recoil, it instantly withdrew. "No really, they _are_ happy to see you." Lestrade had arrived. He gestured at various policemen that had turned at John's and his arrival. Indeed, there were peculiarly positive emotions playing out on their countenances.

"Everybody lies," Sherlock replied somewhat nonchalantly. He was glaring at Donovan who had poked out her head from a screen between offices. He held no grudge towards, her, not really, more towards her idiocy than anything else.

"And on that note, to the case: Neil Gibson, former US senator turned gold mogul — his wife of seventeen years, Maria Gibson was murdered by the governess. All damning evidence points to her—"

"If it's so damning why reopen the case?" John asked, accepting a file he'd been passed. He flicked through the gruesome pictures of the late Mrs. Gibson.

Lestrade sighed and glanced over his shoulder: behind a slightly opaque screen, sat a middle-aged man in one of the many interrogation rooms. There was much about him that Sherlock could instantly tell: the slightly hunched back, roguishly handsome looks, worn out, but what stood out the most, was the immeasurable guilt that was written across his countenance and constitution.

"Because it isn't such a simple whodunnit case anymore," Sherlock said, feeling an odd smirk stretch his lips into an unfamiliar position. This case was beginning to look more like an eight than a seven — and he never left the flat for anything less than a seven.

"That's right. The husband came in an confessed last night. We've been holding him in cells and interrogation rooms since then."

"I'll have to see the scene of the murder," Sherlock muttered more to himself than anyone else. He hadn't been on a proper case in two years. Coming back to it so radically was proving to be harder than he had thought it would be.

"Yes, of course — ah, ah ah—" Sherlock and John had turned to leave and were halted by Lestrade. "The chief superintendent is making me take on a journalist for this case. As it's so high-profile, he feels the need to have a correspondent from the press who'll go along with us."

"Seriously?" John was blinking at Lestrade incredulously.

"He wants to make sure that Sherlock's collaboration is made clear. Every article will go through me and through the chief superintendent."

Sherlock frowned. Since his last experience with the journalist Kitty Riley, who'd supported Moriarty's claims that he'd been hired by Sherlock to play the role of the consulting criminal, he'd become even more reporterphobic than he'd previously been. In fact, he had actually somewhat enjoyed the attention prior to his 'death'.

"Oh over here!" Lestrade exclaimed and began waving someone over. John turned and just by judging his expression, Sherlock already knew that the reporter was a woman, and that she was attractive.

Seconds later, a woman very familiar to Sherlock, stood in front of him. He gulped reflexively and placed his hands behind his back so as not to fidget publicly; for he knew that face, he had grown up with the woman that stood before him. Her curly hair was as wild as ever, and her sharp intelligent eyes were brimming with intelligence.

She was older and looked more like a woman, as opposed to the teenager that Sherlock had known upon leaving the wizarding world. There were faint wrinkles around her eyes that indicated a happy and lively life. Her clothes were muggle, of course, and slightly on the unfashionable side, which told him that she lived mostly in the wizarding world these days.

"—Sherlock," Lestrade was saying. "May I introduce to you Mrs. Hermione Weasley. She will be following you and me around as this case develops. I urge you to treat her with the utmost respect." He smiled at her again, evidently he liked her. "Mrs. Weasley, this is John Watson—"

"Mr. Watson, I really love your blog," Hermione said, grasping John's hand to shake it. John was flattered and gave her an awkwardly flirtatious smile. Sherlock reminded himself to remind John that he was getting married next month.

This fangirling would only strengthen John's belief that it was his blog that brought the clients. Oh well.

"Thank you very much," the doctor said.

"—And this is Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead," Lestrade said, gesturing to Sherlock. He refused her hand, frowning down at her, noting that he had grown enough over the years, to now be taller than her.

She was un by his refusal to shake hands and continued smiling.

"I very much love your analysis of the 243 types of tobacco ash, Mr. Holmes. I particularly enjoyed the bit about the medicinal rituals in Cuba," Hermione said.

Unused to _this_ sort of flattery, he nodded once in thanks, an action that caused John to actually gape.

"Thank you for agreeing to take me with you," Hermione said.

"We did not agree upon anything. Good day," Sherlock said to Lestrade, then with a nod to each of them in goodbye, he spun around and rushed out of the building. He didn't wait for John and was about to get into his taxi, when someone appeared at his elbow. Hermione.

"Are you and Mr. Watson heading to the crime scene?" she asked innocently. Sherlock's brow became a deep frown. John, having now caught up looked at him with a look that said ' _honestly'?._

"I have a prior engagement," Sherlock muttered.

"You do, eh?" John asked sceptically.

"Mycroft wants to see me."

"You're abandoning a case for _Mycroft_?"

"Do you mean Microsoft?" Hermione interjected, obviously accustomed to correcting her wizarding acquaintances and family when it came to muggle terms. Both Sherlock and John turned to look at her oddly.

"Mycroft — his brother," John's eyes were flickering with mirth as he said that. Hermione ahhed and blushed slightly, before muttering a small sorry. Sherlock ducked into the taxi and slammed the door shut, only finally letting out a sigh of relief when he gave the driver directions for the Diogenes Club.

Questions swam in his mind, making his head hurt and him grit his teeth. It wasn't rational to freak out like this; it certainly wasn't the way that Mycroft had taught him. And it certainly wasn't very much like him.

Sherlock grit his teeth; Mycroft had promised that his old life would _never_ cross over with his present one. He had _promised_ that he would never have go back, and yet, somehow Hermione had found her way to Scotland Yard. And she was a _journalist_ now? And _married_ to Ron?

He felt panic rise within him. He hadn't been prepared to see anyone from his life as Harry Potter quite like that — especially not a person he had once considered his family. There was an urge within him to tell her her who he really was, but he knew that if he spilled the beans to her, a chain reaction would ensue and soon he would be frozen in the same life as Harry Potter.

Sherlock had not even thought of that name in years, not to mention called himself that. The name no longer belonged to him and it no longer applied to him. He was no longer that person and he had no wish to be that person.

"That'll be fourteen pounds, sir," the cabbie said. Sherlock pushed some amount of notes into his hand and rushed out before the man could dig out the change. He rushed up to the Diogenes Club. He ignored the concierge, who called for him to put on slippers to make less noise, and straight to the back room, the single area in the entire gentleman's club in which it was allowed to talk.

He stormed right through, interrupting Mycroft during a call on his mobile phone.

"Ah, I'm afraid this conversation has to come to an end, Prime Minister," he said upon seeing a fuming Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, glaring at him. "I have been alerted of a… crisis…. Ah, no nothing terrible."

He hung up, placed his phone on the coffee-tabletop and stood up. He straightened his vest out; Sherlock noticed that his jacket was uncharacteristically slung over the back of his arm-rest. How odd, it was not like Mycroft to be so careless.

"What now, Sherlock?"

.

"Is he always quite like that?" Hermione said with a frown as she watched the car drive off. Mr. Watson sighed in an exasperated sort of way, as though this happened to him every day. He began searching the streets for the next taxi.

"I don't always quite know what's going on in his head, if that's what you're asking. But yes, he's mostly a dick."

"Ah," Hermione said. From what she had heard and read about Sherlock Holmes, he was a piece of work: mean, on the verge of brutal, yet truthful, and incredibly sharp — a genius. He was attractive, in a brooding sort of way: thick eyebrows, piercing eyes that she was sure she had seen somewhere before, hollow cheeks and an intimidating leanness and height.

"But he's a great man too, not many people understand that," Mr. Watson continued, waving over a cab. "I suppose he's gone over to 221B: he'll probably spend the night brooding but he'll have come around by tomorrow. We'll be at the crime scene at around eleven… you could coincidentally be there at the same time…"

Hermione smiled kindly at the older man. "Thank you, Mr. Watson."

"It's John," he said as he climbed into the cab.

"Hermione," she offered. "After all, I will be following you until this case is over."

He smiled. "I'm looking forward to it."


End file.
